— Tom Doyle
Few have been able to launch themselves into a solo career like Annie Lennox. While the likes of all four Beatles, Sting and George Michael were all able to do so coming off the momentum of their previous groups, her old act Eurythmics had begun to fade away, their later albums didn't sell as well while their singles didn't place as high. And while charismatic in her own unique way, she wasn't exactly omnipresent in the culture. (On the other hand, her status as a solo act was helped along by winning four Brit Awards for Best British Female Solo Artist while still being a part of her old group: her 1989 BPI trophy is especially out of place given that it came between Eurythmics albums and her only fresh release was the tepid "Put a Little Love in Your Heart" duet with Al Green taken from the movie Scrooged; surely Yazz, Tanita Tikaram or the unnominated Kim Wilde deserved it more)
Yet, 1992 saw the release of her debut solo album Diva and it was a monster. There were hits aplenty (I've always preferred "Walking on Broken Glass" to "Why" myself but I reckon I'm in the minority on that one) and she was as big as ever — bigger if you consider that Eurythmics are in effect one hit wonders in North America; of course, they did have more than one actual hit but when was the last time a radio station played anything by them other than "Sweet Dreams"? It was so big that its follow up was also huge. Putting out an album of cover versions isn't exactly a guaranteed path to success but many people who were enchanted by Diva went out and picked up Medusa when it came out in the spring of 1995.
Albums of covers tend not to sell well because they usually aren't very good. Medusa is no exception though it does have a couple nice tracks. Familiar fare like Procol Harum's "A Whiter Shade of Pale" and Bob Marley's "Waiting in Vain" are uninspired and who wants to hear these great songs reinterpreted anyway? Not surprisingly, it is the lesser known numbers that make Medusa just about bearable. She does well with The Blue Nile's "Downtown Lights" and her version of London Calling's so-called "hidden" track "Train in Vain" isn't too bad (I would argue that the song was a little more obscure back in 1995 than it is today so it does qualify). But the one real highlight is the album's opener "No More "I Love You's"", a tune that few would've been previously familiar with.
"I used to be a lunatic from the gracious days..."
The song dates back to 1986 from the philosophical minds of songwriters David Freeman and Joseph Hughes. As Tom Doyle (in his debut as Smash Hits singles reviewer) says, the latter is a "birrova "snoot" intellectual" and notes that he has also had a book of poetry published. But this only taps the surface. The duo got their name from the Roland Barthes book A Lover's Discourse and it would provide the basis for their self-titled debut album as a whole. It's considered a minor work by some but major by others (Barthes' works are compartmentalized between serious academic studies — Elements of Semiology, S/Z — and his much more creative pieces — A Lover's Discourse, Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes, the essay collection Mythologies — of which I was much more partial) My memories of it today aren't strong but I can recall reading it in the bath one night and being reminded of those girls that never called me back, of those stupid things I've done that ended up ruining relationships and those times I said "I love you" only to realise it was a mistake as soon as the words left my lips. It was something I said far more often than I care to admit.
"No More "I Love You's"": it sounds like a vow I made to myself but that's not what's going on here. The "language is leaving" him and he is unable to say these words. From Lennox's version there is simply the voice of making a promise to oneself; Freeman's reading gives off pain but it can also be spun to be about a rogue who pledges love but swiftly reneges on it or of a loser who feels something, expresses it and immediately knows he has said the wrong thing. Much has been made about men who are incapable of saying 'I love you' but what of those of us who serially throw it around like barkers at a carnival? I uttered these three words so often that they ceased to have any meaning at some point — and with that, I could say them to just about anyone.
Falling out of love would frequently come about soon after. Still, I seldom did the breaking up when things finally began to crumble. I initiated the 'I love you's' so I could hardly go back on them. This repeated itself enough that I began to see the warning signs: chief among them was listening to vaster quantities of bittersweet heartbreaking pop as the inevitable began to approach. Bruce Springsteen's Tunnel of Love, Blur's 13, The Go-Betweens' 13 Lovers Lane, The Sundays' Reading, Writing and Arithmetic, loads and loads of XTC, The Beautiful South and James. (No, I wasn't listening to Blood on the Tracks or Rumours: I hadn't been in a sufficiently adult relationship to get much out of either of them) The Lover Speaks wasn't there though it easily could have been. Having said that, I wonder if this song would have been a little too on the nose.
"Changes are shifting outside the words..."
I like this song but I can't see myself listening to it again. Timing is everything and the original version of "No More "I Love You's"" in 2021 doesn't mean as much to me as it would back when I first heard Lennox's version of the song (I was doing a very poor job trying to cope with the after-effects of my first breakup) or a decade later when I read A Lover's Discourse (I was in my late-twenties and was starting to fret that my romantic prospects were beginning to dry up). They say that happiness kills creativity, that pop stars who attain a level of domestic bliss start to decline because they no longer carry around pain to communicate. Music consumers are in a not-dissimilar position: when our lives have become contented, we cease to react to tormented works as fervently as we used to.
~~~~~
Also Reviewed This Fortnight
James Brown: "The Playback Mix (Part One)"
Remixes of classic pop were all over the place in 1988 but the medley boom had long since faded (to the extent that Jive Bunny seemingly brought it back to a mercifully shorter shelf-life than a decade earlier). Still, a megamix of the Godfather of Soul's hits made sense. The J.B.'s were James Brown's revolving door backing band and it was drummer Clyde Stubblefield who played the iconic break that was already being sampled to death less than twenty years later. Reclaiming it from the likes of Erik B & Rakim, Public Enemy and LL Cool J (even though he neglected to compensate his old drummer), it now appears on Brown numbers that it hadn't been on previously. The sampling is such that you almost don't know what's authentic and what's been pasted on but that's part of the record's charm. There are many, many better Brown singles (though "Living in America" is not one of them) but "The Playback Mix" gets to the heart of his work. And who knows? Maybe it even got ver kids to take notice and wonder why this old guy nicked the drum bit from "Erik B Is President".
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